Reflections and Shadows

Perfect Clarity

I die a dozen times daily,
wandering to find the afterlife.
Waking anew each dark morn,
I find the same ole killing strife.

To love a corpse isn't easy,
all too well this I do know.
I try to keep the decay inside,
so the rot doesn't easily show.

Misery flows from bloody hearts,
and anguish from table scraps.
Every breath weighs heavy now,
with dread of pitfalls and traps.

I long for the Reaper to settle,
or a blood-sniffing plague to deal.
Such twisted fantasies don't belong,
nor should desire ever become real.

True devotion requires sacrifice,
a ritual all too often not shared.
I guess all that really matters,
is to be the one who truly cared.